The Gods Will Bring You Here
by Akingdomofunicorns
Summary: When he is twenty-four going on twenty-five, a lot of bizarre things happen. Marg dyes her hair pink for a bet. Cella is shipped off to Dorne. Leonette gives birth to hers and Garlan's first daughter. Loras runs away from home and elopes with Renly Baratheon. And he still hasn't met Sansa Stark.
1. I came to you

**********Disclaimer: Mr. Martin owns A song of Ice and Fire. I am not that lucky since I'm not kissed by fire.**

* * *

**The Gods Will Bring You Here**

**Chapter 1: I came to you**

Father, Loras and Marg move to King's Landing over the summer and he stays behind with Mother, Garlan and Leonette. Grandmother goes with them, too, and suddenly Highgarden feels very lonely.

Margaery writes of warm nights and awful smells, of Father's new house with the lemon trees and the fountain in the middle of one of the gardens, of school and new teachers.

For Christmas, they all visit Dorne and Loras talks about fencing and riding with Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan and Margaery won't shut up about beautiful dresses and how sweet Lady Sansa is and how funny Princess Myrcella happens to be.

He's just so happy to have them back that he doesn't care at all. Besides, he's surrounded by beautiful women, all wearing very revealing dornish dresses.

* * *

He breaks up with Meredyth Crane after she goes to King's Landing with his sister. Meredyth is cute and sweet and awfully kind, but she dreams of seeing the world and of running around wild and free and she cannot do that with him. He let's her go and wishes her luck. She smiles and it's over.

Margaery writes to say she's sorry. Myrcella Baratheon slips a note in the letter telling him that chocolate helps a lot and that there are a bunch of gorgeous girls in King's Landing if he feels up to it. Sansa Stark slips another note apologising for Myrcella's rudeness and tells him to drink teas and to read poetry, because it always helps her feel beter whenever she's feeling a bit blue.

He doesn't even know them, but he laughs until it hurts.

* * *

Margaery comes back home for Easter holidays and she brings young Myrcella Baratheon with her. Sansa Stark is in the North with the rest of her family. And he is glad, because he can hardly keep up with two of them, let alone three.

Myrcella is younger than Marg by four years, but she's hilarious and he can see why, despite the age difference, they're friends.

He wonders how is Sansa Stark like.

* * *

"Margy talks about you a great deal."

Willas looks up from the book he is reading (_Arabic horses and how they're different from Sand Steeds_) and comes across Cella's very green eyes.

"All good things, I hope," he says. The truth is, he doesn't really understand the Princess, she's too weird to be real.

"Kind of. Do you really draw maps of the stars?"

"Sometimes. Do you enjoy looking at the stars?"

"Yes, of course. Sansa likes stars, too. And flowers," she adds as an afterthought.

Willas smiles at her and gives her a book from the table to keep her busy. Marg had an appointment with the doctor and Myrcella's been left behind. She walks around the house as if she owns it. She takes the book (_The Princess Bride_) and turns to page one, but she doesn't stop talking.

"Will you draw me a map? One for me and one for Sansa!"

"Would you really like that?" She nods, golden curls bouncing up and down, and he has to agree with both his sister and his brother, she's adorable. "I would be honored to do so, Princess. Are you, Marg and Lady Sansa very close?"

Cella looks up from the drawing on the book that she was examining.

"Of course we are! I am going to marry Sansa's brother."

Willas has to bite his tongue to avoid laughing at the young girl until he's able to answer.

"Which one? The middle one? He's staying with you in King's Landing, isn't he? What was his name again? Margaery mentioned him once, but I cannot remember his name for the life of me."

He can't stop talking or he'll start giggling like a little girl and he has a reputation to maintain. Also, Myrcella might complain to Margaery and he'd be dead.

"His name is Bran. Sansa, Arya and Bran. But no, not him. Her older brother, Robb. We are going to get married."

_Breathe in, breathe out. You cannot laugh at her, Willas; she is only a little girl._

"Are you betrothed?"

"No. Not yet, at least. But we will be, you'll see. Have you got a girlfriend?"

He tells her to let him finish his book and to read hers. Instead, she pokes her tongue out at him and than she changes _The Princess Bride_ for _Antigona_. He's not sure if she really is nine. He's not sure if she's _human_.

* * *

Margaery and Myrcella leave at the end of the holidays and the house grows very quiet. Marg sends him a letter every week, Cella every fifteen days and Sansa Stark slips notes in the Princess' letters because she feels the need to apologise for her friend's rudeness. Three months after he has received her first note, he sends her a letter for the first time. And just like that, they're friends.

* * *

July. Garlan takes Leonette as his bride on a warm night and the party goes on for three days straight. They say it's a wedding, but Willas calls it _madness_. No one sleeps, of course. By the time Garlan and Leonette must leave for the honey moon, Father has passed out on top of a table and Marg is sleeping under it. Loras is still drunk, Grandmother looks at everyone as if she's about to murder them all, Mother is crying her eyes out and Willas hates weddings and Garlan for ever proposing to Leonette.

But the party was all Father's idea, really.

Margaery leaves for the north a week after that to spend a month with Sansa and Myrcella in Winterfell.

Loras comes out of the closet not a week later and so does Renly Barateon (it's not as if anyone already knew, you know —like, it wasn't obvious or anything). How convenient.

He wonders if Myrcella is acting like her weird self as usual —if she has scared poor Robb Stark half to death already. He woders what shade of red is Sansa Stark's hair. It is not orange, it cannot be. Orange is for the Weasleys.

* * *

Margaery comes back paler than ever and half in love with a Jon Snow-Stark, Sansa's cousin, a boy so serious he probably doesn't know other people go to the bathroom, too (Cella's words —the girl need help). Jon Snow is two years older than Marg, a pretty boy with a pretty face and pretty hair ("Gorgeous hair, but mine is prettier," writes Myrcella).

Summer comes and summer goes and school starts again. Margaery leaves, so does Loras, and Garlan and Leonette move to a small apartment of their own. Highgarden feels even more lonely and quiet.

He meets Natasha-whose-surename-he-cannot-pronounce. She is twenty-five, almost five years older than he is, and she's beautiful and exotic and her lips are so red and, oh, so full. She stays for three months and their relationship is passionate and strong and consuming, but it ends all too soon and she goes back to South Africa.

He doesn't know why, but he doesn't tell Sansa or Myrcella about Tasha. It makes no difference, they discover it through Marg, of course. His sister sends him a beautiful letter and stupid pictures of herself with her friends; Cella sends him yellow sock that match her pink ones; Sansa sends him _The Notebook_ and tissues.

He watches the movie with his mother and he _does not_ cry. He is a man and manly man don't cry because of stupid things like that. He curses Marg's name for being friends with weird and sweet girls.

He dreams of red lips and red hair and red dresses.

* * *

When he is twenty-four going on twenty-five, a lot of bizarre things happen.

Marg dyes her hair pink for a bet.

Cella is shipped off to Dorne, where she attends an all-girls school for a year and dates Trystane Martell in her own weird way (she's only thirteen, in the Gods' names!).

Leonette gives birth to her first daughter and Garlan falls in love with the tiny girl the moment his eyes fall on her. They name her Lyna.

Loras runs away from home and elopes with Renly Baratheon and no one understands why they had to run away, since they would have been very happy to have the ceremony in Highgarden. It must have something to do with how the last wedding went.

And he still hasn't met Sansa Stark.

* * *

He is visiting Renly and Loras in Storm's End when Sansa visits Highgarden for the first time.

He is in Buenos Aires when he hears of Joffrey Baratheon's death.

He is right beside Myrcella when Robert Baratheon suffers the same fate as his son.

Joffrey was in a strange car accident and Robert was so drunk that somehow he managed to get himself killed by a boar. It is later revealed that the car's brakes were manipulated and that the wine was poisoned. Nobody knows who it was, but Lord Tywin Lannister accuses Lord Baelish and Lord Eddard Stark beheads Littlefinger. Northeners are from the old school.

He knows Sansa Stark cries for Joffrey's death (they had been together for almost a year), he knows Myrcella claws at her own face until he is able to stop her with Garlan's help, he knows the Queen goes mad at her son's death.

Prince Tommen Baratheon, the first of his name, is crowened King at the young age of thirteen.

(Later, he'll discover that Sansa didn't really cry Joffrey's death as a lover, but as a human being. If she cried at all. He's not sure why, but he'll feel better knowing this, even if it makes him feel sick to his stomach.)

* * *

He finally sees Sansa Stark in person a day before Tommen's coronation.

In the pictures her hair looked duller, a reddish brown (_Auburn, Willas, her hair is auburn, can't you see? You're such a man!_, that's Margaery shouting at him). But from where he stands, her hair is red, so red it is blood and fire, ribbies scattered in the riverbank, shining under the setting sun. And yes, there is a tinge of brown in it, but it's red. Not orange, not at all.

She is wearing a pink dress (_Coral pink, Willas. Really, can't you get your colours right? What are you, three?_) that somehow does not clash with her hair. He knows it's because of the ocasion, because she's been mourning Joffrey ever since they buried his body. He knows because Myrcella has been writing to him every two days since she returned to the capital after her father's death. He has to make sure she doesn't go insane in her grieve like her mother.

He goes to kneel before the future King, but he stops him and asks him to join him for breakfast. He is glad he doesn't have to go through the pain of kneeeling and getting back up and thanks the Gods for Tommen's kindness.

Sansa smiles at him from the other side of the room, where she stands between her older brother (the one Cella says she's going to marry) and her younger sister (the one Cella loves so much because she's as wild as the wind, or something). It is no wonder Lord Robb has gotten to King's Landing before him, even if Winterfell is further away than Highgarden. Surely he didn't have to book a flight for a pain in the arse such as his Grandmother. And why did she have to spend so much time with Garlan and Leonette and baby Lyna? Isn't Mother enough? Really, doesn't she understand that she needs to be with Margaery or the next thing that will happen will be something along the lines of Marg deciding to be a porn star? Or what is worst, Father might actually let her...

He has breakfast with the Baratheons. Loras, as Renly's husband, is there too. Father joins them and sits beside Mother. Grandmother is so nice and charming and sweet he's surprised he doesn't see the venom dripping from her chin, impatient to spill at it's next victim. Garlan, Margaery and Leonette join them later, when Lyna is fast asleep and she hasn't got a fever anymore.

They talk of how Tommen will make a fine, just and kind King, like his father. Willas thinks of Sansa Stark's very red hair all the time.

* * *

At dinner, almost-King Tommen asks Lord Stark if he wishes to stay as Hand or if he'd rather return home. The table grows quiet.

"I will do as you please, Your Grace. If you need me as your Hand, I will be honoured to stay as such."

"You served my Father well, Lord Stark, and I would be very pleased if you served me as you've served him. There is still much I need to learn to be a good King."

Willas arches an eyebrow.

His eyes meet Myrcella's and he knows both her mother and her grandfather won't be pleased about it.

His eyes meet Sansa's and all he can think about is how very blue her eyes are.

* * *

Tommen Baratheon is crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lord Stark remains his Hand.

It is made oficial that Lady Stark will be moving to King's Landing with her youngest son and Lord Robb will have to rule Winterfell alone.

And Marg introduces him to Sansa Stark.

* * *

"I actually have that hanging on my wall! Your sister had it framed and it's still there."

Willas wonders how a girl like Sansa, sweet and kind and soft-spoken, ever managed to become friends with Marg and Myrcella.

"You mean to tell me that you still have that map of the stars I drew so many years ago?" he asks, perplexed.

Sansa nods and he knows he's a goner.

* * *

"Do you like green?"

"What?"

"Here, I got you green socks."

"But—"

"I think Sansa likes them green. She has a pair just like the ones I just gave you."

* * *

Sansa tells him of Joffrey's quick temper and angry hands and makes him promise that he will not tell anyone.

He sees red.

* * *

Myrcella goes to the Sept to pray for her father and her brother everyday and she becomes fast friends with the youngest Stark boy (the one who's as weird as her). He thinks she has finally outgrown her crush on Robb Stark.

He doesn't say anything about it because there is a possibility (a little one —tiny, really) that he's in love with the young and beautiful and perfect Sansa Stark.

* * *

King's Landing is awful, but he goes riding with the girls and Garlan when he's not busy with Lyna and Cella doesn't seem as sad anymore. Sansa's hair, tied back with blue ribbon, bounces against her shoulderblades and it's like liquid fire, trimmed with gold and chocolate.

The library is amazing, too, and somehow he finds himself becoming friends with Lord Robb, Lord Theon (who is there on his father's behalf), Jon Snow (he does have obnoxiously gorgeous hair), Tommen and crazy as hell Oberyn Martell.

And, sometimes, Sansa stays with him in the library and reads quietly by his side. It is his favourite part of the day.

* * *

There is a young lord, a Ned Dayne, who follows Arya Stark around, drooling after her.

Sansa sits her sister down for a talk and asks for details. After seeing Arya's face, both Margaery and Myrcella fall from their sits, laughing like crazy women (they are crazy women).

Ned Dayne's nose is broken not two days later. Apparently, he tried to kiss a very feisty lady.

He shares a knowing look with Sansa and has to fight back the blush trying to make it's way to his cheeks. He is not twelve.

* * *

It seems he does not need to worry about Marg being in love with Jon-prettyhair-Snow again. He goes to the kitchens with Garlan, where Theon can usually be found at certain times of the day, and he catches Marg snogging the crap out of him.

Since he is the sensible brother, he restrains Garlan and stops him from barging in and... Well, he is the sensible brother (in fact, he's the crippled brother who cannot beat Theon fucking Greyjoy to death even if Margaery is eighteen and perfectly capable of taking care of herself). That doesn't stop him from giving Theon a very detailed description of how one of his hounds can tear open a grown man's throat with just one bite.

_No one touches Marg._

* * *

As it turns out, Cella is still convinced she's going to marry Robb, she just doesn't talk about it. Her infatuation with him is not that obvious, mostly because they find her snogging Monterys Velaryon.

When she spots them, she smiles, pecks the Velaryon boy on the lips and walks away, taking her uncle Renly with her to tell him all about her new pair of woollen stockings.

He should probably explain to his companions Myrcella's love for socks, but the look on their faces is just too funny.

When later that night he tells Sansa about it, she laughs until her face is as red as her hair. It's lovely.

* * *

As much as he loves spending time with Sansa, there are responsabilities waiting for him in Highgarden and he has to return home.

Myrcella gives him socks with little Santas in them (she doesn't act like her weird self as usual, so he supposes this is how she deals with pain, by being more subdued) and tells him to buy her something amazing for Christmas.

Margaery gives him a T-shirt that says "I heart K'sL" (he doesn't tell her that he actually hates King's Landing) and kisses him on the cheek. Loras might be her favourite brother, but she adores Willas and Garlan, too.

"I might be gay," Loras says, "but I'm not a girl —therefore, I'm not giving you anything."

Sansa corners him the night before he leaves and gives him a lock of her hair tied with white ribbon.

"I was hoping you'd ask, but Marg says you're too shy."

She smiles at him, gives him a quick peck on the cheek and runs away.

He leaves the next day, but he's got a lock of Sansa Stark's hair to tie to his ring and the world is bright. Sansa Stark will end up in Highgarden. Not yet, of course, but he knows she will. And that's enough for him.

For now.

* * *

**I moved their ages around a little bit, so by the end of the chapter Willas and Leonette are twenty-five and Sansa seventeen, Margaery is eighteen, Myrcella fourteen, Garlan twenty-four and Loras twenty-two.**  
**I know there is a lot of Myrcella in there and I have no idea how that happened. She wasn't going to appear and suddenly she was there and I could do nothing about it. She refused to go away. But there will be more Sansa/Willas on chapter two to make up for chapter one, where there isn't enoguh of them. And Margaery has a surprise for you!**


	2. You came to me

**************Disclaimer: Mr. Martin owns A song of Ice and Fire. I am not that lucky since I'm not kissed by fire.**

* * *

**The Gods Will Bring You Here**

**Chapter 2: You came to me**

Garlan sees the red lock of hair tied to his ring, but he says nothing. Leonette is too busy with Lyna, who is months away from her first birthday, to care at all and Mother just smiles knowingly and pretends she doesn't know anything. He can't believe he's actually that obvious about it, but the truth is he's always thinking about her (most of the time, sometimes he thinks of other things too).

Margaery's letters are full of news of Court and the drastic changes King Tommen and Lord Stark are making, of gossip about Cella, who's still snogging the Velaryon boy, of Sansa, who's constantly saying no to every man that comes her way and who blushes whenever his name is mentioned in a conversation. Myrcella's letters are full of secrets about her mother's ever growing paranoia and Velaryon's efforts to sleep with her and even though they're very serious topics, the way she explains them have him rolling around in laughter in his bed (_"But really, Willas, he made a strange noise on the back of his throat and it sounded like a pig farting. Is that normal? Am I too picky? Should I punch him in the face? Father told me to punch every man that tried to touch me in the face before he died. I think I'll follow his advise, but you're smarter than Father ever was. Not that I'm going to listen to you, anyways, but I'd like to know your opinion, to be sure."_). Sansa's letters... They are full of beautiful words and sweet nothings that leave him gasping for air and make his stomach flutter in a good way. She tells him about a new dress she bought, of her sister's antics, of Bran and Rickon squiring for Ser Barristan the first and Ser Loras the other one (or he will, once he is twelve years old), of Cella being as crazy as always and Margaery ordering everyone around with a sweet smile on her lips and an amused gleam in her eyes. And she tells him that she misses him and asks him to come visit her soon and he keeps dreaming about kissing her pink and glossy lips.

He finally understands how Cella must feel about Robb. It must have something to do with the hair, for sure.

* * *

Sansa's letters grow bolder, but they still have the same sweet quality that he loves so much. He can hear her voice when he reads them, murmuring on his ear and inside his head, and he can almost feel her breath on his skin or smell the honey-scented shampoo that lingers after her.

He wakes up at night with all his body shaking and itching and the need for a cold shower.

* * *

For Halloween, Marg sends him a picture of the three of them and Arya in their costumes. In the back of his mind he is aware that Marg's and Cella's costumes are not okay, that his sister shouldn't be showing so much skin and that Cella is only fourteen, but he can only see Sansa, who is dressed as an inappropriate Septa, and he has trouble not letting his emotions show. Arya Stark seems to be the only one who understands that Halloween is for monsters, bless her.

* * *

For Lyna's birthday the girls send a scarf knitted in Tyrell colours and there is a small party with chocolate cake and cookies because the baby is sick, again. But on the weekend Marg, Father, Loras, Grandmother, Sansa and Cella suddenly appear at the door and he knows this is something they will never forget.

He remembers Garlan and Leonette's wedding and shivers in anticipaton. This, he knows, will be good.

* * *

They put Lyna in a pink dress and she looks lovely. She's got the Tyrell looks on her, but her mother's smile and thick eyelashes. And the baby adores Sansa —she plays with her hair, completely in awe with its redness, she giggles when she sings or bites at her fingers with toothless gums, since she only has a pair of teeth.

Sansa looks more beautiful than ever with his niece in her arms and more than once he catches himself imagining her a bit older, wearing a dress of gold and green, playing with a boy with brown curls and blue eyes and a girl with red locks and sweet brown eyes. Margaery must know exactly what he's thinking about, because she taunts him nonstop with secretive smiles and soft but straight to the point words.

For Lyna's birthday party, bards and clowns are called to court, a pretty girl dressed as Cinderella, a dozen babysitters to take care of the children... There is a large cake covered in white frosting in the middle of the room, decorated with little blue and pink roses (this is Highgarden, after all). He also sees a chocolate fountain, a castle built out of marshmellows, giant chocolate chip cookies cut in slices as if they were pizza, pizza rolls with flowery shapes, lemon cakes one on top of the other, a bucket full of strawberries, several pots of honey...

There is too much food and too much people and too much pink and he feels he is drowning in Barney the Purple Dinosaur's vomit. It is so much worse than the damned wedding. Garlan and Leonette are having the time of their lives, of course (he refuses to acknowledge Father, the mastermind behind all this).

* * *

He finds Sansa sitting by herself near the chocolate fountain, flushed and sweaty from all the dancing.

"My lady, you sure look even lovelier than normal, this evening."

"It must be from all the dancing and the festivities," she replies, smiling and blushing a beautiful shade of pink.

He sits beside her in silence, watching as the dance unfolds before them. Marg is way too close to some boy, but he doesn't feel like caring, Myrcella is talking in a corner with a bunch of girls and Loras is being charming and knightly while he simultaneously texts on his phone. Fast fingers, his brother has. He's never been much of a texter —he prefers the warmth of the letters, the ink on his fingers, blue and bright and wet, the old paper with the watermark of roses or thorns or the family name, the sensation of the quill scratching the paper... He's a romantic (he has fallen in love with a girl who is about nine years his junior and is as perfect as the dew that falls early in the morning), there is no place for texts in his life, he thinks.

"Are you enjoying Highgarden?"

She smiles and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Yes, very much. I fell in love with your home the first time I came and it's gotten even more beautiful since then. It is never winter, in the south."

"It has snowed a few times in the last ten or fifteen years," he tells her, feeling nervous all of a sudden, "but nothing as impressive as you must be used to at Winterfell."

Sansa takes a deep breath, as if trying to keep him inside her somehow, even if they're not really touching (except for her head resting on his shoulder and making him nervous, of course). Her hair smells of honey, as always, and the light hits her in a way that all her head seems to be on fire. _This is how a man goes mad,_he thinks quietly, _at the sight of an angel sent from Heaven by the Gods themselves._

"Winterfell is beautiful, Marg and Cella must have told you so," she says and waits for him to nod before continuing, "and I'm sure you would love it too. I'll make sure to have you over sometime so you can enjoy the snow and the ice and the feeling of thinking that your toes are going to fall off your feet."

Loras comes to take her to spin her around the floor and he stares after them, wishing for the thousandth time in his life that crazy as hell Oberyn Martell hadn't been better than him at the bloody tourney and that his leg wouldn't be such a pain in the arse. But despite what most people think, it wasn't really the Lord Oberyn who crippled him, it was his own arrogance. And for that he will probably never forgive himself. (He knows, though, that as a Tyrell it runs in his blood and he is thankful that at least the accident killed his arrogance flat.)

There is still honey in the air surrounding him.

* * *

Renly Baratheon shows up after the magician has done his act and with him comes the circus. And by circus he doesn't mean the clowns (the clowns were already there, thank you very much), he means The Circus. The Golden Company of Essos, they call themselves and they are similar to the _Cirque du Soleil_, they just lack the reputation. And after the circus come the horses and the ponies and even a panda and a koala. He really doesn't want to think of where he got the panda and the koala, he values his life and he doesn't want to end up in jail for association. The kids are delighted, of course, and they run around in joy, screaming their heads off and terrorizing their parents.

Cella comes to him smiling and laughing and happy and he's glad that this madness of party (for a one year old who won't remember a single thing about it and doesn't do much, except crawl around and leave drool all over the guests) is making her happy again, that the deaths of her father and her brother are not as present as they were months ago. She'll survive. And she'll do well. Baratheons are tough.

"Isn't it wonderful? He brought a panda! For my last birthday there were fireworks, from Uncle Renly, of course. He gets better every year —the babies will love the fluffy animals."

"I take it that you're enjoying the party."

She frowns.

"Ah, of course," she says after a while, smiling again and hugging him, "you don't like this type of parties, I remember. Well, get used to it because Uncle Renly is you brother-in-law now and he loves parties. And surprising everyone at parties. And he loves his nieces and nephews. It's going to be awesome for Lyna, she'll have the best uncles ever."

Myrcella kisses him on the cheek and runs for the chocolate fountain since they are refilling the platters with the fruit and the marshmellows and the biscuits and the girl loves to eat.

He watches Renly's figure from afar, weary eyes following his every move. He's nice and kind and funny and very handsome and if he were gay, he would totally steal him from his brother, but there is something about the Lord Renly that scares him and that he doesn't like. He doesn't know what it is, exactly. One of the horses tries to eat a curtain (damask gold with threads of white gold and silver). _Ah, there it is,_he thinks, _the thing I don't like about him: the animals he brought into my Great Hall._

* * *

At nine o'clock, the kids are put to bed and the real madness begins.

While Marg is talking to some guy he doesn't know, another one (taller and stronger and scarier than the first one) walks to them and punches the poor bloke on the nose.

"Do not talk to Lady Margaery, you fucker!"

He is so not going there to stop the fight, he doesn't have the patience needed right now. Luckily, Garlan, Loras and Renly run to them and separate the two idiots who are rolling on the floor, throwing blind punches here and there, by grabbing them by the back of their collars.

"Dude, chill out, what is wrong with you?" asks Garlan while he pushes the stronger guy towards the exit, Renly following him.

He doesn't get to hear his response because they disappear through the door. Loras takes care of the other guy and Marg just shrugs and picks up a small éclair from the table and brings it to her lips. She turns to Meredyth Crane and her younger sister and starts talking of something or other. Meredyth returned to the Reach a couple of years ago and goes to college and works at a store, but they haven't really talked much.

Nearby, Cella is being followed by one of the clowns and she looks terrified. It is impossible to tell who's underneath all the white and red and blue makeup, but it's definitely a boy of under twenty-five with blue eyes and an orange wig. Myrcella is about to cry, he's sure, and he remembers Margaery saying something about her hating clowns or dolls dressed as clowns or porcelain clowns. He should really help the poor girl out less she suffers from a heart attack, but he's too tired to give it more than a thought. Someone else, kinder and not as pissed at Father as him, will help her. With a bit of luck, a knight in shining armour to make her forget her silly idea of marrying Robb Stark.

Leonette looks a bit tipsy while talking to Grandmother and he feels sorry for her —she's taken a couple or three goblets of wine for the first time since she gave birth to Lyna and her body has forgotten the feeling of the alcohol. Grandmother, on the other hand, looks quite scared for the first time in what feels like decades. The last time was when Mother birthed Margaery and almost died and he had been around seven. He cannot fathom what in the Gods' names is Leonette saying to have her like that. But Leonette is scary sometimes, so the question isn't _What in the Gods' names is she saying?_and more like _What in Satan's name is she saying?_ He'd use the Stranger in the question, but he's a god, not some kind of devil.

Around eleven o'clock, both Garlan and Leonette are making out in a corner, so drunk they don't see straight and the guests —drunk, too— are cheering on them. Loras, who hates not being the centre of attention and is pissed drunk, too, even drunker than the rest, grabs Renly by the hair and shoves his tongue down his throat. Renly doesn't seem to mind the intrusion and responds eagerly and this is like that time he caught Marg snogging Theon Greyjoy, he feels sick.

He catches Sansa's eyes from across the room and tries to smile, but he's too tired and it comes out as a grimace, instead. She nods and points to the door with a light movement of her head. He waits five minutes after she's gone and than he follows her outside.

* * *

Sansa is waiting for him leaning against the opposite wall.

"You don't enjoy parties," she says, her voice sweet.

"Oh, no, my lady, I do. But not the type of parties my Father fancies so much."

Sansa walks to him and rests her hand on the crook of his elbow. He holds onto his cane and leans in a bit, just so her shoulder is aligned with his arm and her warmth spreads around his body little by little. Her hair spills from the braids styled at the top of her head in messy ringlets that tangle over her shoulders and she looks like some kind of greek goddess come to earth to drive him mad. He's sure there was a goddess that could make people go mad by just looking at her.

"They're extravagant," she replies, "but I quite like them —they are very different from the ones held in King's Landing and even more different than the ones we had in Winterfell. And I was not expecting the animals, really. I wonder how Lord Renly got the panda and the koala... It must have been extremely difficult and dangerous, don't you think?"

He hums in agreement and keeps walking, even though she's the one leading the way. As they move further away from the Great Hall, the music and the laughs and the shouting become a faint sound in their ears, a vivid memory in their minds. He recognises where they are, of course, it's his home, but he has no idea where she wants to go, so he just follows her lead. Somehow, he finds himself in a bedroom. Sansa's bedroom, for he recognises the dress on top of the bed and the boots under the chair. He looks at her surprised and unsure at the same time, but she's not paying him any attention; she just walks over to the boudoir and sits on the ornamented chair. He's not sure of what to do with himself, so he just stands there, leaning onto his cane and hoping to get trough this without ruining everything.

Sansa starts taking off the pins and the ribbon from her hair and there are so many of the first that he thinks her head must weight a ton. But she sings quietly to herself, some tune he's never heard before, and the red curls fall all the way to her waist.

"Would you do me a favour, my lord?", she asks, avoiding eye contact through the mirror before her.

"Y-yes."

He sounds so nervous, like a fifteen year old boy who has never been with a woman before when in fact he is almost twenty-six and should be the adult in this relationship. Or lack of relationship. Or almost-relationship, depends on what happens tonight.

"Would you be so kind as to brush my hair for me? I fear all the dancing and running around have left me quite tired and I've always enjoyed someone touching my hair. I would've asked Marg, but I fear she's too busy with her childhood friends and I did not want to bother her."

He takes the brush with some hesitance, but goes to work quickly. Her hair is silk and water, maybe honey and cream and melted caramel or all at once. It's warm when he touches it, like the flames from a fire, like her kisses must be. There is so much he'd like to do right now —with her and to her, but he restrains himself because it's not the right time. Mother would say that there might never be a right time, that the right time is what we make of it, but he's not sure about that. There is a right time for everything, he believes, a moment in your life where you think "_Now, this is it_", where nothing feels wrong or rushed and Sansa deserves this right time that comes to everyone, she deserves the perfect moment that will make this thing between them last. Neither one of them is prepared yet, but at one point they'll both be ready and it will be right.

Once he is done, he places a kiss to her knuckles and bids her goodnight before departing her rooms. He remembers now that seeing the goddess Artemis naked made a man go instantly mad —he hopes it's not the same with Sansa.

* * *

Cella and Marg are in his room, jumping on his bed.

"I'd ask what are you doing, but I fear the answer will scare me to death."

"Willas, sweetling, we thought you'd spend the night with Sansa!" shouts Margaery, nearly falling down the side of the bed.

They're drunk, the both of them. And, apparently, when they're drunk they're like those chipmunks from the movie when they get hyped up on caffeine. It's as scary as it gets.

"That's why we're here —Marg said you're bed was perfect for jumping. Which probably means it's perfect for sex, too, and it makes me wonder why did you go to Sansa's room."

_Nope, it can actually get worse._

This is not a conversation he wants to be having. He did not sign up for this. What is wrong with the world and everybody?

"Willas, stop staring into space!" Marg complains, jumping off the bed and walking to him. "I'm not as drunk as you think." She trips over the carpet and falls to the ground in a heap of giggles and heavy limbs. "Or maybe I am."

"Willas, Willas, Willas," shouts Cella, "… I forgot what I was going to say."

So he does what any sensible man in his place would have done. He picks up Marg from the floor and makes her walk to the bed and than he forces the both of them to get under the blankets. It is a wrestling match, really, like the fake ones that Garlan used to watch on the television. But this one is not fake and Cella's elbow crashes very realistically into his stomach.

"In bed. Now! The both of you! Or there won't be any Christmas presents for you this year."

Cella immediatley lies down and shuts up and pulls Marg beside her. This is a trick he'll have to remember for the next time.

So Margaery and Myrcella end up asleep on his bed and he moves to his sister's rooms with the feel of Sansa's hair between his fingers still fresh on his mind. It is ruined when he sees the poster of a half naked man hanging on the wall.

* * *

Marg's room smells of roses and cucumbers and fresh linens and this is how he knows where he is when he wakes up the next morning. It's very Margaery-y, even if that's not a word. He rolls to the side and flinches when the sunrays hit his eyes. It must be about midday. He tries to stand up, but his muscles are sore and his eyes feel dry and heavy, so he gives up.

But not for long.

"Margy!" yells Loras after opening the door with so much force it bangs against the wall.

"Go away."

"You're not Marg."

"No shit, Loras," he murmurs, covering his head with the pillow.

Loras jumps on the bed and lies beside him, taking up too much space for Willas to be comfortable. He's too tired to try to push him away, though.

"What are you doing in Marg's room? And where is she?"

Loras smells of alcohol and greasy food and a bit of strawberries, which is an awful combination that makes his stomach churn. And he's still drunk. Sighing, he finally forces himself to stand up and looks over to his brother. He looks as terrible as he smells and he thinks Margaery will throw a fit when she comes back to her room later in the day. Too bad, she shouldn't have taken his room in the first place.

"Go to sleep, Loras, Marg will be here soon and you can talk to her then."

"I had something important to tell her," he whines.

"I'm sure."

"By the way," he says as he slowly drifts off, "I banged Renly against Father's bureau."

Sometimes he really wishes he was an only child. Or that his siblings were normal, at least.

* * *

Sansa finds him by a rosebush at four in the afteroon and she comes to him with a note in hand.

"Will there be lemon cakes with the tea, my lord?"

"And more," he says, smiling, "but you'll have to come with me to find out, my lady."

Sansa is wearing blue denim shorts and a yellow top because it's never winter in Highgarden, even when december is weeks away. Her hair is tied in a lose braid that falls over her right shoulder in messy locks of red and gold and a tiny bit of brown. He loves her hair —he loves it when it's lose and it falls down her back, when she wears it in ringlets with coiled ribbons of satin and velvet, when she braids it with flowers and pearls, when it is straight and messy or gathered in a hairnet. There aren't many redheads in the South and as they get closer to Dorne, skin and hair and eyes grow ever darker. There has never been a Lady Tyrell with red hair before, now that he thinks about it.

"It is very kind of you to share your tea with me, my lord —you have been so stressed this past days that I fear I might be intruding in your scarce moments of solitude."

She really has no idea of how much he wants to spend his time with her.

"Please, I would beg of you to call me Willas, for we are friends, are we not? And there is nothing I'd rather do than have tea with you."

Sansa laughs and it sounds like the sweetest of bells.

"It rhymed, Willas!"

"Ah… Do not think of me a poet, my lady, I could bearly write a sonet when I was in school and my literature teacher thought it would be a good idea to give us such an awful task as homework."

"But you speak so beautifully."

"Then I shall keep talking."

Sansa blushes deeply, but takes his hand nonetheless and he walks her to a table hidden by tall bushes and an apple tree that's still heavy with its fruits. He has made a point to ask the service for an extra chair and the sweetest lemon cakes just for Sansa and he feels half naked when she sits down —this is where he comes when he wants to be alone, here he has cried and he has laughed by himself, here he will teach his nephews and nieces and children how to read and how to write, here is where he hopes he'll have tea with Sansa at four in the afternoon for the rest of their lives.

"Please, do."

* * *

Sansa's lips are soft and thin against his and they taste of milk and honey. It is a chaste kiss, innocent in its entirety and it only lasts a moment and a half. It's hard to tell which one of them tilted their heads enough so that they could brush against each other, but it's not really that important. Not when he'll have the memory of her flavour and the feeling of her teeth lightly scratching forever engraved in his head.

"Must you leave tomorrow?"

"Must you stay behind?" she murmurs against his skin.

"I'll visit you soon."

"Then I shall do the same, my lord."

* * *

Sansa and the others are gone for a week when a letter from Loras arrives at Highgarden. A picture. A family picture. Loras, Renly and a beautiful baby of about seven or eight months with black hair and dark eyes and olive skin. There is a note with the picture.

_Dear Family,_

_Renly and I have adopted a baby. Roden says hello. You should say hello to Roden, too. His birthday is in four months and you are all invited to the party, which will be held at Storm's End, of course._

_Love,_

_Loras Tyrell_

_PS: Surprise!_

* * *

February. Sansa's letters are always long and full of secrets and lengthy descriptions and sometimes there are presents, too. For his birthday she sends him a handkerchief embroidered with thread of gold and a wooden case with a false bottom and she asks him to "hide his secrets well" and there is this other time when he receives the portrait of his profile done with watercolours and so many other things. But ever since they started writing each other, her letters have been long, so when he opens the envelope and finds the note he is surprised. And when he reads it, he knows it's bad.

_Willas,_

_Arya ran away from home last night and we're all going mad here. Mother had a panic attack, but the Maester sedated her. Willas, I beg you, please come to King's Landing for I fear I don't know what to do. Please._

_All my love,_

_Sansa._

* * *

**I'm writing chapter three right now and it's going a bit slow because there are a lot of things happening and I want to get it right. If you want to keep up with how I'm doing, if you want to know how much it will take me, etc, you can check my tumblr, where I talk about it. The link is in my profile. If you check my tumblr, make sure to chek the tag Help with Art and participate or spread the word or something, just help us. I explain what Help with Art is about on my tumblr, too.**_  
_

**All my love and read you soon,**

**Nala Queen of Unicorns.**


	3. We're Here

Leonette is the one who books their flights while he sets everything in order so they can leave for King's Landing. Mother is to stay behind and manage Highgarden in his place —there is no one else who he'd rather have in his stead, for she is more capable than anyone, having helped Father rule ever since they married. He feels guilty for asking this of her, knowing she'd prefer to come with him to see Father and Marg and even Grandmother; and she's got a sweet spot for Sansa and Cella, too. But she says nothing and agrees to stay behind, ever the lady doing her duty, honorable and kind and true to her family.

It takes them a week to get everything ready, but he finally calls Marg to let her know they are coming and his sister can't believe that he is the one calling her. He never uses the phone if he can avoid it and they all know it.

Father and Marg are at the airport when they arrive and his sister flashes him her wicked smile before rushing to Garlan and Leonette while she lets Father hug him first. She will never forget this, he knows, how he's crossed half the country at Sansa's command just because she asked nicely over a letter. She will never forget it, but he really doesn't care. It's Sansa and he will always be there for her if she needs him —Marg doesn't understand yet, she's too young to get it, but she will in time.

"I feel as if you love Sansa more than me," she later whispers quietly in the car, "as if you love Sansa and Cella more than me."

"No," he answers, clasping her hand in his and looking her straigh in the eye, "don't say this, Marg, never say this. You're my sister, my little princess," and she is his little princess, born to be a Queen and to stay young and beautiful and always a child, "and I would fight against dragons and ogres for you, even crippled as I am. You know it, I know you do, don't you forget it. I might love Sansa, but it's a different kind of love: the love a man bears a woman, the love half of King's Landing's male population bears for you, I'm sure." She laughs as she rests her head on his shoulder and he knows they're alright again. "And I love Cella, she's my best friend, but she's not you, she's not my sister and she does not share my blood. I could never replace you, my sweet, and I could never love someone the same way I love you."

Margaery's eyes are sweet and kind and beautiful and she looks exactly like their lady mother when she smiles so brightly, her cheeks pink in her delight and her hair braided carelessly.

"I am glad, brother dear. Sansa is the luckiest woman on earth, you know that, don't you?"

They're both lucky —lucky to be young and in love, lucky to have known each other for so long through letters and words, lucky to have waited so many years before seeing each other, lucky to be alive and together and whole. They're the lucky ones, them who hold the keys to each others' hearts, buried deep within their souls. Marg is right, they are lucky, the luckiest of the realm. And how sweet the knowledge tastes on his tongue.

He's missed Marg and how good she makes him feel without trying, without knowing.

"You are an angel, silly girl."

"Try more like the Devil."

And she knows what she's talking about.

* * *

Lord Stark is too busy trying to assure Lady Stark that Arya will be fine, so Sansa and her younger brothers are the ones who accommodate them as best they can with the servants' help. Myrcella is busy with ballet or piano or something like that; Tommen is negociating the possibility of joining Houses Baratheon and Tyrell with House Martell through Lady Shireen and Prince Trystane and Marg and Prince Quentyn to set aside old rivalities and grievances, although Father is having none of it, of course, because apparently a wild and inappropriate Martell is not good enough for a Tyrell ("_Not like a Lannister —that bloody bastard is too fucking rich and he controls the throne through King Tommen, even if he's not Hand. If we marry Margaery to Ser Jaime… But Ser Jaime cannot marry, that's true… Tyrion might… They say Lannister won't let the Imp inherit Casterly Rock, but we might be able to sway him: Marg's hand is not something to take lightly; we're the richest family after those golden lions and if we join our houses, our power would be greater than it has ever been. Too bad Prince Joffrey died such an early death, I'm sure Marg could have been Queen._").

Sansa takes his hand as they're walking towards the Starks' private solar and she slowly brushes her lips over his palm. It's the sweetest of gestures, something quick and intimate, and he feels the need to crush his lips to hers. But he doesn't. Rickon mimicks throwing up when he sees them and Bran rolls his eyes, but Marg laughs and surrounds both their necks and ruffles his hair. Garlan and Leonette are with Father.

"Thank you so much for coming, Willas —I believe it has been hard on all of us to lose Arya in such a way."

"We haven't really lost her," says Bran as a matter of fact, "she just ran away to see the world, as she put it."

"What do you mean by that?"

Bran smiles, as if he's remembering something amusing.

"She left a note."

"Don't worry, brother dear, we'll show you so you can help your beloved Sansa."

"Stop teasing me, Marg," he complains, "you get really annoying when you find something to tease me about."

"It is my duty as your younger sister, brother, so stop whining about it. Really, don't be such a baby."

Sansa and her brothers laugh and she intertwines their arms.

"You remind me of Arya and myself when you do that. We argue a lot, more than you will ever be able to imagine, but we do love each other dearly,_ fiercely_, and we will do so until the day we die. I can see this more clearly now that she's gone."

They're all quiet after that, until Rickon begins telling them of his fencing lessons.

* * *

He pulls Sansa into and empty room before dinner and kisses her deeply, pulling her tongue into his mouth and sucking gently, drawing circles on her hips with his fingers.

"You feel guilty," he tells her after, when they're sitting on a couch near a window, his head resting on the white leather and Sansa's cheek on his shoulder while her legs are over his.

"Not really."

"You do."

They're late for dinner, but they don't really care. Sansa's cheeks are flushed and her lips are swollen, but her eyes shine and she can't stop smiling and he feels how his stomach shakes from time to time —there must be a bunch of rhinos in there, because most certainly they're not butterflies.

"Maybe a little."

"Care to tell me why?"

She sighs and kisses the spot where his neck meets his jaw, right beside his chin.

"We might have fought. I know it sounds cheesy, like something from a Disney Channel movie, but it's what happened. I told her she should act more like a lady, that she would end up being a disappointment to Mum and Dad, and we shouted at each other and there were insults in between and… I don't know! I was going to apologize, but she disappeared before I had the chance. Well, I did have a chance, but I was just too scared that this time I had been too harsh."

"Sansa…"

"Mum had a panic attack because I could not understand Arya and get along with her."

"What did the letter say?" he asks, because it's hard to believe that strong and awkward Arya would run away from home just because of a silly fight with her older sister. From what he remembers, that is not like the youngest she-wolf.

"I'll show you later, we're late for dinner and I'm sure Myrcella is excited to see you."

* * *

Indeed, Cella is very excited to see him.

"You came!" she shouts, throwing herself in his arms. "Sansa asked and you came! How sweet! I missed you."

"I missed you, too. Now get off me and let me greet the rest of your family and guests."

"Oh, Willas, it has been so long since you last saw me and you already wish to get rid of me! How awful! Of course, now Sansa is your favourite and I am third after Marg…"

"Cella…"

"No," she says, disentangling herself from him and frowning, "I do not wish to speak with you anymore. I only wish for Arya, for you love Sansa and Marg more than me and I cannot stand it; but Arya is gone on a marvelous adventure and I am stuck in King's Landing with the rest of Court."

Marg, as it seems, is not the only one who is jelous of Sansa. Myrcella sticks her tongue out at him and dances to her brother's side. He greets Lord Stark next, with his long face and serious eyes, but kind mouth. He can see a bit of Sansa in his mouth, in the way he frowns lightly, in the way the corners lift when he's trying not to smile, in the way he parts his lips slightly when he's thinking about something.

"Lord Stark, I am here to help you within all that's in my power."

"My family and I thank you for your help; it is very kind of you —there was no need for it, really, but your help will be more than welcome."

Lady Stark is next and he kisses her hand delicately and tells her pretty much the same thing he tells her husband, but with sweeter words.

"Lady Arya will be alright, my lady, and we will make sure to bring her back home, do not worry."

"Thank you, Lord Willas," she says with a small smile playing at her lips. "I do fear, though… The last time a Stark girl…"

"You shouldn't listen to those thoughts, Lady Stark, they will do you no good. They say Lady Arya looks and acts very much like the late Lady Lyanna —I cannot judge, for I did not know her and I have hardly talked to your youngest daughter—, but she is not her. Lady Arya is her own persona, with her own thoughts and desires and dreams; I don't know all of the story and I haven't seen the letter, but I am sure she was not kidnapped," he says, taking her hand in his and squeezing lightly, thinking of how much Sansa looks like her. "You will see Lady Arya again, you will get to hug her and kiss her and forbid her to see the light of day until she is forty-seven or so."

"You are the kindest of men, Lord Willas. I am glad… Oh, my husband seems to be troubled by something. Maester Pycelle, I see… I must leave you now, dear, before my husband loses his patience. I look forward to speaking with you, Lord Willas."

Lady Stark walks away with a swish of skirts and red curls and he is left alone. Around him, they are all talking: Cella with a pretty little thing of a girl, a woman of about twenty, with brown hair and fair skin and a lovely tiny gap between her teeth; Marg with Sansa and a small boy; Garlan with Father, Grandmother and Leonette… King Tommen is by himself, looking around a bit lost, so he goes to his side.

"Hello, Your Grace."

"Lord Willas," the younger boy exclaims, a bright smile on his lovely, golden face, "it has been a long time. My sister has missed you dearly. I am glad you came, we're all very worried about the whole thing with Lady Arya —some say she ran away to get married with a butcher, others say she was kidnapped by a Blackfyre or a Waters, a Targaryen bastard, that is: Rhaegar reborn. I do not believe any of it; Lady Arya is too fierce to get herself kidnapped. She might be saving the planet or fighting zombies, Cella says. Who knows?"

"Leave Lady Arya to the Starks and myself, Your Grace, you have a realm to rule."

"Yes, and that has left me bloody hungry. I say we begin eating, don't you think?"

He is seated near the Starks, Sansa not far away from him. Rickon smiles at him when he catches his eye and tilts his head to the right, looking at him with curious eyes.

"Lord Willas, why are you here?"

"Rickon, do not…" Lady Stark begins to chastise him, but Willas is rather fond of the little Stark boy with Tully hair.

He waits until she is finished, though, since he doesn't want to intrude, and waits until Rickon apologises to him before speaking.

"It is alright, Lord Rickon, I was not offended in the least. It is normal for you to wonder and ask. I am here to help you look for your sister. Don't you miss her?"

"Of course I miss her!" he shouts, startling everyone. "I miss Arya very much, but she isn't_ your _sister."

He really has no answer to that. Lady Stark's smile is a bit crooked, more of a smirk, and Lord Stark raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"That's simple, Rickon," says Sansa, lifting the golden goblet of wine from the table, "Lord Willas is my boyfriend and I asked him to come."

"Your boyfriend!" shouts Rickon again.

"Yes, my boyfriend. We did not tell you anything because Willas intended to talk to Father first, but with Arya missing I thought it would do us good to have someone as sensible as him around. Mother looks better after talking to him, does she not, Father?"

Lord Stark has to nod at that, for Lady Stark does look a bit healthier and happier, even with all the lines in her forehead. Her cheeks are brighter, her smile more genuine, her eyes livelier.

"And since when have you been seeing my daughter, Lord Willas?"

"Officially?" he can't help but ask. "About two seconds? It is true, Lord Stark, I intended to speak with you first.

"Alright, then speak we shall."

He is in so much trouble he can't begin to imagine how he's going to make it out of this alive.

Myrcella smirks at him from behind her napkin.

* * *

"Sit down, Willas."

"Yes, Lord Stark."

The Hand's study is solemn, much like it's owner. There are books scattered on the mahogany desk and on a corner of the floor, a dry quill perched at the edge of the table and a half finished letter adressed to Prince Doran Martell.

"You are dating my daughter, Willas, you may call me Ned."

"Yes, Lord Ned."

Lord Stark smiles, a kind smile, really, but Willas is reminded of a wolf who can smell its pray's fear. And, as of now, he is terrified.

"There is no need to call me Lord, anymore."

"Yes, Ned."

It feels wrong, to call him anything other than Lord Stark, so in his head he still refers to him as such. Sansa's father sits at the other side of the desk and pours both of them a cup of wine each.

"Do you enjoy wine, Willas?"

It is a trap, it must be.

"A good one, of course. I do not indulge myself in it, though, it tends to numb the pain in my leg and in the morning it is ten times worse, so I only do so with a full stomach."

He hopes this is the right answer. It must be, because Lord Stark's smile widens as he gives him the goblet.

"Neither you or Sansa have told me how this came to be."

"Accept my apologies, Lord Stark, I did not intend to offend you. I would have asked sooner for an audience, but I didn't wish to disturb you."

"There is nothing to apologise for, Willas; you are here to help us look for Arya and you say you care for Sansa. I only wish to confirm that."

"I do care for her," he says effusively, trying to stop his shaking hands less he spills the wine, "very much. Your daughter and I met through letters: Marg and Cella wrote to me periodically and Sansa slipped notes into Cella's letters to apologise for her rudeness. We just ended up doing what felt natural, we started to write to each other. I came to care for her like that and when I met her, I already had deep feelings for her; not love, not yet, but they soon developed into that. My intentions are honest, I can promise you: I want to develop a relationship with her and I want this to be real, I want a future with her. I don't know how it will go or if we'll love each other forever (I hope we do and I'm gonna work on that), but I can see myself in thirty years, surrounded by children that look exactly like her."

Lord Stark is quiet for a few minutes, pondering in silence, staring at his fingers as he taps them against the table in a steady rhythm.

"The girls did say you spoke beautifully," he finally says, looking up and smiling with his eyes, "and they were right. You are a kind man, Willas, and you seem good enough for my girl. Do not get me wrong, you are wonderful, it seems, but forgive me if I can't find anyone perfect enough for one of my princesses. This means, of course, that if she so much as sheds a tear in front of me because of you, I will set all five of my children's direwolves on you. I'm sure Jon's will want to help, too."

Willas cannot find it cheesy because he is speaking about direwolves, not dogs. But he shakes hands with his new father-in-law and bids him goodnight.

Before departing the Hand's study, he says, "I do not think Lady Arya would have taken it well, you calling her princess, that is."

"You're right, but a Father still hopes. Besides, Mulan is a Disney Princess, is she not?"

* * *

Lady Stark stops him on his way to bed and asks him to walk with her to her rooms, which means turning around and going back to the Hand's Tower. It's not something he wants to do (he's still thinking about direwolves and in-laws and wine), but she's Sansa's mother and he's supposed to be a gentleman. When she takes his arm and starts walking, he can practically feelthe words that are about to come out of her mouth.

"You helped me greatly, earlier, and I would like to thank you."

"It was nothing, my lady."

"You have an easy way with words," she says, smiling softly, "and I can understand why Sansa is so infatuated with you. You are a lovely young man, but you will forgive me if I ask you for your age."

Lady Stark is a pragmatic woman and, right now, she is nothing but a wolf bitch trying to smell a threat to her precious pups.

"Twenty-six, my lady."

"I know Sansa is a woman grown now, but she's just turned eighteen and I worry."

"I understand, Lady Stark, and that's why I wanted to speak to your husband first. Sansa said she would speak to you; she has mentioned that you are very close."

"We are, my Sansa and I. Sometimes I wish I could be as close with Arya as I am with her, but she is more of the North, I believe; less inclined to be a lady, better with a sword than her brother Bran. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks I don't love her, if I prefer Sansa over her —it scares me that she might grow to resent me for it, that that is why she ran away…"

Lady Stark seems to be on the verge of tears, so he hands her his handkerchief, the one Sansa embroidered and sent to him, and waits a little bit before speaking.

"Lady Stark," he half whispers, afraid to make her cry, "from what I've been told, you are the greatest of mothers, and I am sure Arya knows you love her fiercely. Aren't the Tully words _Family, Duty, Honor_? I have told you before, my lady, Arya will come back."

They stop at the bottom of the stairs.

"You may call me Lady Catelyn, Willas. Now, don't get me wrong, I believe Sansa is a bit young to be dating you right now, she's not experienced enough, has not lived enough; but she seems to love you and you obviously love her back and, pragmatic as I am, I do have a soft spot for true love, like most women."

"Thank you, Lady Catelyn."

"Do not thank me yet: tomorrow I'm going to be busy and Sansa is going to town to ask about Arya with the others. You are going with her, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Well, you are taking Rickon with you. Have fun."

* * *

Sansa is waiting for him on his bed, her hair in a bun and wearing a sleeping gown. When he opens the door, she lifts her eyes from the book she's reading and smiles sweetly at him.

"What are you doing here, darling?" he asks, admiring the way in which the blue silks embrace her body like water from a river. "Your parents will kill me if…"

"Hush, Willas, I am a big girl and I can spend the night with you if I want to. Did you speak with Father?"

"Yes."

Sansa waits, but he pretends to be busy with the buttons of his shirt and she finally gives up.

"And…"

"I'm not sure…"

"Willas!"

"Alright, alright… So demanding…"

"I heard you!" she shouts, raising from the bed and resting her hands on her hips (and very nice hips, those are).

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry… He's fine with us being together. Gods... Your Mother, on the other hand…"

Sansa tilts her head and she looks very much like little Rickon did at dinner, though she's more like her older brother, whereas the youngest boys are more like Lord Stark, despite their Tully red hair and bright blue eyes.

"I was the one supposed to speak with Mother."

He sighs.

"I know, but she wanted to speak with me and I'm pretty sure she timed it so she could ambush me. She approves, kind of. But I still believe it would be good for our relationship if you talked with her."

"Already planning on it, don't worry. Now come to bed, it's a bit chilly."

"It's winter, of course…"

"Just come to bed, Willas."

He complies and Sansa feels warm and soft against him, her hair tangled in his fingers and her legs intertwined with his. The silk of her gown caresses his thighs and her nose is tucked in the crook of his neck. She is extremely careful of his bad leg, extremely sweet when she rests her hand on his chest, extremely cute when she burries her other hand in the dip of his back, right where his tailbone is, seeking his warmth.

They fall asleep like that and they forget about the missing sister that could actually be in a lot of trouble right now.

* * *

Leonette anounces at the breakfast table that she's with child again and Margaery is the first one to shout in joy and throw herself at her sister's awaiting arms. Myrcella, who's still mad at him, bounces around the woman, asking all kinds of questions about the baby, and Sansa waits patiently to kiss Leonette on the cheek and tell her how lovely the news are. Willas thinks that his family is taking it a bit fast and he fears Loras and Renly will adopt three or four in one go so Roden won't feel alone. He imagines baby girls with pink dresses and cashmere scarves and baby boys with dark trousers and black doublets trimmed with golden thread and fabulous names such as Jaspert, Nymeria, Sienna, Angelo, Orianna, Daena, Shiera and others he's too lazy to think about.

And, even if Cella is still mad at him, she's in a very good mood and she dances to him and whispers low in his ear, "Robb arrives today."

Princess Myrcella Baratheon, who could seduce any boy she wanted, seems to still be infatuated with Lord Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell.

* * *

When the horn is blown, Cella's eyes brighten and her lips curl in the beautiful and soft smile everyone loves so much. He sees Sansa's hands, how she clasps Cella's in hers, how she leans forwards and whispers in her ear something he cannot hear.

A servant enters to anounce the arrival of Lord Edmure and his sister, Lady Lysa Arryn, and her son, Robert. He can almost feel the disapointment in his best friend, but she hides it well and claps her hands in false happiness.

"We will find Arya faster this way! I did not know Lord Edmure was coming, are his rooms prepared?"

The servant hesitates and leaves the room in a hurry. Myrcella turns to her brother expectantly.

"Emm…"

"Tommen?"

"I haven't received any letters from him. This is unexpected."

Myrcella rolls her eyes and excuses herself. Before leaving, she turns to Marg and Sansa.

"Do you know if Lady Lin is awake yet?"

They don't and Myrcella closes the door behind her.

* * *

As it turns out, Lady Lin's name is not Lin, but Roslin Frey, the girl with the gap between her teeth. Lady Roslin is sweeter than any other woman he's ever met —a shy little girl of twenty-one, with a soft voice and softer eyes. When she compliments Lord Arryn's fine figure (the boy is thin and pale and looks rather frail), Lady Lysa smiles at her and than turns to her sister with a triumphant look.

He kisses Lady Lysa's hand and clasps Lord Arryn's in a firm handshake, and than he turns to Lord Edmure, who's busy giving sweets to his nephews. He hears Lady Roslin speaking quietly to Lady Catelyn.

"Your sister seems very nice, my lady, and your brother is very handsome."

Lady Catelyn smiles and winks at her before calling for her brother.

"Sweet Edmure, won't you come to me? I've missed my baby brother."

"Sister, dear, I was merely talking with your sons. Where's your husband?"

"Busy," she says, embracing him, "busy ruling a kingdom with the King and trying to find my daughter."

"Cat…"

"Not now, Ed, we will have time for this in a few minutes. Now, I believe you've already met Lord Willas."

"Yes. A pleasure seeing you again."

"It's mine as well, Lord Edmure."

"And this is Lady Roslin Frey," she says.

The girl —she looks very much like a girl, she's rather short— curtsies gracefully.

"My lady is very beautiful."

"My lord is very kind."

_And voilà, here comes another love story_, Willas thinks.

* * *

Lord Edmure stays behind to rest after the journey and they go to town. Naturally, they don't find out anything other than that Arya spends too much time near Flea Bottom. A boy from school, Hot Cake or Hot Pie or however it is they call him tells them that she likes to eat lemoncakes by the docks and run around the park on Wednesdays at five in the morning and at six on Saturdays. But they cannot rely on him, because Arya's been homeschooled since King Robert's death, along with Sansa and the rest, and he's not sure if her schedules have changed.

When they get back to the Red Keep, Robb Stark has just arrived and Rickon runs to him shouting this and that, it's hard to understand him when he's so excited. There's one thing clear, though, baby Stark feels the need to let his brother know that their sister is dating him and that they do yucky things like kiss and hug. Robb throws his head back and laughs before picking him up and throwing him in the air.

The siblings hug and then he shakes hands with the young heir.

"I don't want to see you kissing my sister," Robb tells him, smiling nonetheless, "I'm with Rickon on this one, it'd be yucky."

"I don't think this is how it works," Cella tells them, "Willas is older than you, you don't get to boss him around."

"But she's my sister," Robb complains.

"And you think it was nice, seeing my brother snog her? You are a twenty year old man, suck it up and deal with it. You're not gonna refrain from kissing your girlfriend just because Rickon thinks it's disgusting, are you, you sexist arse?"

Robb scowls.

"It's not that I'm sexist," he tries to explain, but Myrcella is having none of his shit.

"It's just that all of you think we live in the middle ages and that just because she's a woman she needs to be protected from other males. Of course you're not sexist, it's just my very active imagination, then."

It is not very much like Myrcella to leave a guest unattended, but she's so furious she just storms out, or in, because she gets in the castle before any of them can say anything else. And Cella, who's as weird as Luna Lovegood but always and forever a Princess, has left them openmouthed and alone without offering Robb a snack, like her septa must have taught her.

"Dude," Theon Greyjoy says, trying not to laugh, "all I can say is: nice job pissing off the Princess."

* * *

He sits in Sansa's room as he waits for her to change before lunch and he looks at the pictures in her albums. Margaery features in a lot of them, and Myrcella and Arya, but also her brothers and her parents and little Tommen with his lovely kittens, and Loras is there too. But the last album is empty except for one picture, on the first page: the both of them, in Highgarden, smiling at a camera above them, eyes shining bright and happy.

"I'm saving this one for us."

Sansa is right before him. He closes the album and sets it aside and Sansa climbs on his lap, her knees carefully planted on the matress and her thighs holding him in place.

"We should take more pictures, then."

"We should."

Her lips are soft, but there's a desperate edge on them, as if she's tired of fighting.

"Everything alright?"

"Not really," she says, resting her forehead on his, "but it will be, I know. I just need to eat. You know, Arya and Cella have one thing in common: they both seem to think that eating solves everything. I'm starting to believe they're right."

"I think food can wait for a bit."

"But I'm hungry…"

"Just a few seconds?"

"Well, I'm…"

He doesn't get to hear the end of what she has to say, she can't finish her sentence because he kisses her first and they forget about lunch for the next fifteen minutes.

* * *

Myrcella is wearing a beautiful dress, a deep green with a sash of gold velvet that hugs her under her breasts. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail and her curls fall swiftly over her back, yet she is barefoot and she's playing football with baby Stark, Bran and Tommen. She looks like a fairy, the kind you expect to see in a Disney movie, or that one Marg liked so much when she was a little girl, where Barbie was a main character but Barbie wasn't her name and… Or maybe it was… He wasn't really paying attention…

Robb comes to them with a small basket in his hand, but the other one is hidden behind his back. The kids run to him, asking and begging for him to play with them, and Myrcella stays close by, but still away from him, ignoring his eyes. Willas and Sansa, and probably all the rest, inch closer in case they say something interesting or Cella decides to attack him and claw his eyes out with her bright pink nails.

"Boys," he says, and Tommen smiles encouragingly, "I'll play with you in a minute, but please go with the others so I can talk with Myrcella in private."

Willas wants to laugh at the private part, but instead he grabs Sansa's hands and pretends to be busy biting her fingertips, catching the flesh between his teeth and aplying a small bit of presure, not enough to hurt her, but to tickle her.

"I hope there's food in the basket or I won't want to listen to you."

"I'm sorry, but no food. There's another thing, though. Something I hope you'll like as much as food. Or more. Here."

Robb takes his hand away from behind his back and gives her a bouquet of wild flowers, some a pale yellow and others a light blue, lighter and softer than baby blue. Cella takes them and she blushes a pretty pink when Robb smiles sweetly and apologetically at her. Then he says, "And the basket, Princess." And Myrcella opens the lid and jumps back.

"Is that a…"

"Yes."

Robb is smiling from ear to ear.

"Why is there a sleeping puppy in a basket?"

"It's my way of saying sorry for being a jerk. I'm sorry, Myrcella."

Myrcella takes a step forward and opens the lid again.

"He is very cute."

"He? How do you know if it's a he?"

"I don't. Is it a female?"

Robb looks at the puppy before answering.

"No."

"Then why are you questioning me?"

Sansa laughs in his ear and tugs at the hairs in his nape before leaning in and whispering, "Wouldn't they make a cute couple?"

"You're trying to…"

"Well, this way no one would complain about you being older than me."

"You're too clever for your own good."

"I know."

Life is good, Willas thinks, but he knows it could be way better. This is why he kisses her on the neck in front of everyone and why he tells her to reach in his pocket.

"I wasn't planning to do this until much later. I was going to wait for about six month or so, but I cannot wait any longer."

"Is this what I think it is?" she asks, her hand still in his pocket.

"Promise me that we will get married someday. It's not an engagement ring, it's a promise ring, a promise that in the future we might get married, but right now we're just not ready. I've put it in a chain so that if you say yes, you'll be able to wear it around your neck and…"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes," she repeats, her voice weak and cracking from holding back tears, but still clear. "Yes, yes, yes and a thousand times yes."


End file.
